Valerius Dreams.
In the gloaming, midway between seasons, the great ash stands, its black limbs sprawled out toward the rising moon and the stars beyond. A raven rests, safely perched in its branches, high above all harm. But down amongst the roots, a silent patient worm works, gnawing away in the darkness, gnawing to spoil the roots, and to bring down the ash, and the raven…
Now changes the scene. A man approaches, dressed in robes of purple and gold.
The Popinjay.
“I come this night as a friend to you, Valerius, which is all very well for your sake,” says the man, attempting a weak smile. “For I should be a most bitter and terrible foe to you. Already I have tolerated your meddling for much too long, allowing my affection toward a fellow practitioner of the ars magica to stay my hand. But no longer shall I permit this indulgence to continue. You are no fool, I am certain of that—your accomplishments have managed to impress even me, who stands at the very pinnacle of our craft.
“We should not be opposed, you and I. There are so few of us left in the world who command the ancient philosophies as we two do now. We are the heirs, perhaps the sole heirs, of two great lines of secret knowledge, each nearly lost in the fall of Tynar. Why, you share your very name with one of the great Adepts who plumbed the mysteries of the invisible world, who could command and bind the spirits that dwell in the earth, the air, the water, and in the fire.
“Meanwhile I have pursued the difficult craft known only to the great artificers of antiquity. You have already seen a few of my creations: my resplendent eagles, my redoubtable lions, my mighty servant that even now stands watch over Antace. And surely now you know the nature of my next ambition. It is all true, I assure you. I have indeed discovered one of the Nine Colossi, fashioned by the Tynan Adepts in centuries past. Or at least, I have discovered the remains of one.
“This was the very same Colossus destroyed by Maecenas, the great deluded Maecenas, last of the Imperial Adepts in the North, Maecenas who betrayed his fellow practitioners, who turned from his art, and all for what? Do the pious mundanes drone his praises in their masses? Do they supplicate before statues formed in his image, or heap up sacrifices in order to propitiate his favor?
“Do not follow the route of his folly, Valerius. You and I, through no fault of our own, are forced to subjugate ourselves before these slack-jawed mundanes, to serve them when we should have utter rule over them all. And these ignoramuses would kill us if they could comprehend the mighty forces that we wield. What they do not understand, they instinctively fear, and that which they fear they hate. And for that they would destroy us if given half a chance. We are maguses, you and I, and our power is but a little less than that of the gods themselves. We are as far above these mundanes as they are above their domesticated beasts.
“Alone, you and I are perhaps unable to turn back this tide of animal ignorance, now centuries deep and dropping deeper with each passing year. But together… with the Colossus we could assume our rightful place as lords over these wretched mundanes. We could break their armies, level their cities, throw down their rule, make them howl to the mute heavens above for mercy. I come this night as a friend to you, Valerius. I come to offer you only that which is rightfully yours as a magus. Embrace it, Valerius: cast off this unseemly sentimentality toward your lessers and assume your rightful inheritance as a master over them…”
The Great Hall in Upchurch. Feast of the Birth of St. Auratien, I Drieland. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Oswald.
“By the Cup,” roars Sir Garnfellow, taking a great drink from his flagon of ale, “I am utterly parched from all that riding, and my great back is bent almost double under all the weighty news I bring out of Heremac. I say, the road to Upchurch is a hungry one… might there be a bit of something for Old Will here to nibble on? Just a meager morsel, to tide me over until later?”
Sir Hamral, Bailiff of Upchurch, nods to his serjeant, Oswald, and the red-faced retainer hustles out to the kitchens. Garnfellow heaves a sigh of relief and wipes at his sweating brow with a dirty rag.
“Good Sir Hamral,” pants the fat knight, “I am glad to see that, even in times of great trouble, you still maintain the tremendous reputation held by Upchurch for hospitality, to much credit to your already praiseworthy name. ‘Zounds, but it is hot as a bonfire out there, and I made my best speed to get here.”
Oswald returns with a bit of cheese and bread in hand, which Garnfellow happily snatches up and wolfs down.
“My thanks to Dame Currey for this repast. Now where was I? Oh, yes. The fighting around Eredy continues without stint. Both Busirane and the Seekers have taken grievous losses in the last few weeks. Sir Gowther of Harrogate, a goodly knight with lands near Canglen, was slain but a sennight ago in one of Orestes’ night raids.”
“So that scoundrel is still about, then,” says Oswald.
“Indeed,” says Garnfellow, “and much to the sorrow of many a Pentian mother and maid. Orestes and his son, along with his band of ruckish fighters, have dared to assault even Gregory’s own camps in Eredy. Why, Orestes’ raids have been the very height of effrontery, and have led to the loss of several brave brother-knights.
“And during the day, Busirane has led several headlong drives at the Seeker lines. He has not yet broken through, though each one of his attempts has been bloody. I heard that during one of these battles, Busirane was so overcome with the blood-lust that he actually slew one of his own captains, smote the unlucky ruck’s head clear off his neck, all because he got too close while the prince was overcome with a frenzy for slaughter.”
Oswald shakes his head. “I have heard that Busirane is often overtaken with madness in the heat of battle.”
“It is true,” says Hamral, grimly.
“Indeed,” says Garnfellow. “Pity those poor Pentian wretches around Antace who have been enslaved by the Prince. His pitiless wrath would be terrible to behold. The poor folk are forced to toil night and day for Busirane, without any day of rest, through sun and rain. Although I did hear one curious exception. Have you ever heard of the Anchoress of Abberlane?”
“I have been there,” says Hamral, leaning forward.
Garnfellow nods and takes another drink of ale. “Well, wherever Busirane has extended his rule, he has driven out all the priests and even burnt down many parish churches. But it appears that the little shrine wherein the Anchoress dwells has remained untouched. And I have heard this was on the orders of King Tereus himself.”
“Doubtless, even the king of the rucks fears the power of a living saint,” says Oswald.
“So many have supposed,” says Garnfellow. “Evidently this had led to many pilgrims risking life and limb to visit Abberlane, even though Busirane has threatened to execute anyone he catches approaching the shrine.”
“Has anyone seen the brass monster of Antace?” asks Hamral.
“Sadly,” says Garnfellow, “the terrible thing still guards the castle. Just two nights ago Gregory led a raid of his own against Antace, with a handful of brother-knights. But the unsleeping giant was waiting for them and single-handedly repelled the assault. Gregory was badly hurt and his war-horse was slain, clove in two with one stroke of the giant’s axe. The Risen, they say, was lucky to escape from Antace with his life.”